


Birthday Boy

by ninamalfoy



Category: Football RPF
Genre: Betaed, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-07-19
Updated: 2010-07-19
Packaged: 2017-10-10 16:22:05
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,492
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/101717
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ninamalfoy/pseuds/ninamalfoy
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>They will never change. Ever.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Birthday Boy

**Author's Note:**

> First posted on LJ on November 24th, 2006.
> 
> Not true in the least bit. I'm just borrowing their public persona to play.
> 
> Good betas are hard to find, and even moreso perfect betas. But the lovely abbichicken proved that she is one of the latter and I'll be always deeply grateful to her - the fic wouldn't be as good as it is now without her help!
> 
> **Edit:** No worries, Metze and Basti still end up in bed together. I've just edited the fic again to iron out some crinkles with the help of the lovely jeanne_alouette. *blows kisses* Now the fic's 99,9% perfect in my opinion! Mwah. :-)

Tina had shaken her head at his present for Metze. "You guys," she had said, with a wry smile, "you'll never change, really. As if you'd ever be able to!"

Basti had just laughed. She was right – always had been. They would never change, him and Metze. As if they would ever want to, anyway.

_But haven't you-_ a small, merciless voice slices through his thoughts before Basti can squish it; not quickly enough.

That was the past, and this is now. A new leaf turned in their own book; clean, white and waiting to be filled with their shared joy, their teasings, their _friendship_. It's something Basti never, ever wants to miss out on again. Not after these past weeks, awkward and trying, hesitant talks and almost-unnoticed glances, aborted touches, not after all this – and just why is he bringing all this up again? Fuck.

Basti sighs and changes gear, the motor revving up and then he's on the autobahn, taking a little detour that is quicker and hasn't as many traffic lights as the alternative. He squints up at the drab grey clouds marring the featherblue sky, hoping it won't rain today.

It's for the best. It _has_ to be. Holding that thought firmly in his mind, he switches on the radio – EinsLive, the moderator announcing a talkshow with that annoyingly chirpy tone, extolling the virtues of Otto Waalkes and the new 7 Zwerge movie, and although Basti had planned to go watch it, he doesn't really want to listen to Waalkes and so he changes the station until he finds one with better music – some German indie pop band, not bad – and turns up the sound a bit.

The autobahn's exit comes up and then he's back in Dortmund, weaving through the afternoon's traffic, and when the song ends and a Tokio Hotel song is announced, he winces and turns off the radio. One more corner left, and then he's there – and in luck because there's a free parking space right across the street, a little way up from the bus stop.

Basti has the present tucked firmly under his arm as he crosses the street, braving the chilling breeze. Winter isn't far off, what with that sharp smell in the air that always reminds Basti of long walks in the forest, firs laden with snow and burnt autumn leaves. It's a comforting smell, and Basti smiles involuntarily as he presses the bell.

It doesn't take long until he hears the 'click' of the door being opened.

"Hey," and Basti grins up at his best friend standing in the doorway, jeans and a simple white button-up shirt. "Hey yourself, birthday boy." He holds out his present that he had wrapped carefully at home yesterday. "Hope you like it."

Metze lifts it to his ear, trying to rattle it. "Something solid?"

"Just unpack it," Basti says, smiling.

"Sebastian!" A tall, lanky brunet on crutches appears behind Metze – Malte, Metze's younger brother. "Come on in, it's been incredibly boring without you so far, and I need worthy gamer competition instead of the sad excuse that's my brother here!"

Metze rolls his eyes. "There you go, I have to endure him whining all the time."

Stepping over the doorstep, Basti laughs. "Well, put like that – I think I apparently came at the right time to prevent a fratricide."

"You wish," Malte snorts, "this morning Chris tried to poison me with too-strong coffee. It wasn't black coffee. It was a _vortex_ of blackness. Evil blackness."

"Your fever seems to be rising, Malte," Metze retorts, closing the door behind Basti as he's shrugging out of his coat, and suddenly they bump into each other, and for a fleeting instant their bodies _melt_ against each other, all the layers of cloth disappearing, and it's just like the way it _was_, and then Metze's stepping back and around him, clearing his throat and when Basti looks up at him, he knows that that dazed look is mirrored in his own eyes.

"Whatever. So, we've got spaghetti with Chris' special sauce on the burner, the PS2 is hooked up to the TV and there's even good beer – what more do you want?" Malte's already hobbling back to the living room, apparently oblivious to what has transpired between the two best friends.

"Well - I ought to unwrap this," and Metze raises Basti's present, the slight flush already receding. He turns and follows his little brother, leaving Basti standing in the hall, stranded.

Damn. What – no. Don't think about it. As long as they're not all alone with each other – and with a start Basti realizes that they haven't been alone with each other since – it. Probably because either of them knew something like that could – would've been inevitable.

Still, there's Malte, and so he should be safe.

How strange this sounds. As if he has to _fear_ Metze when he's the one to whom Basti would gladly entrust his life and soul without thinking twice. Christoph's always been the steadfast rock in Basti's life, the one keeping him grounded. His anchor.

He hopes that this still applies, that he hasn't screwed everything up. _Hope springs eternal,_ the merciless voice sneers. Basti sighs and rubs his cheek, the slight stubble scraping over his palm, and goes to join the brothers in the living room down at the end of the hall.

The big table in the living room is almost buried under all the stuff spread out on there – Basti recognises the latest issue of Player with Thierry Henry on front, and some WAZ issues, too, amongst the bookstacks, the laptop in the middle and there's a half-empty bowl of crisps balancing precariously on a pile of books. Malte's leaning the crutch against the wall next to the couch and with a sequence of seemingly complicated moves, manages to make himself comfortable onto the couch, finally leaning back against the soft pillows with a sigh.

"Aw, widdle Malte can't even sit down properly," Basti says, unable to suppress a smirk.

Malte cranes his head around and glares at him. "The schadenfreude really doesn't become you, Basti. – Christoph!" he yells. "Your boyfriend is being an asshole to me!"

"Basti has every right to do that," Metze yells back from the kitchen where he has disappeared to, "and I consider that just payment for having to put up with you these last days. Kehli, you want a beer?"

Basti clears his throat. "Yeah, sure – just the one, though. Got any Becks?" _Boyfriend_. He knows that Malte was just taking the mickey out of them, still.

"Yeah, it's none of that mix stuff, though, just pure Becks," Metze says as he returns to the living room, dropping an ice-cold bottle of Becks in Basti's hand. He's still holding the present in his hand and pulls out a chair at the table. "Now onto the real thing," the tall brunet says, grinning.

Basti chuckles and slides into the chair opposite to Metze. "I just hope you like it."

Metze slips his thumb carefully under the sticky tape. "Somehow that doesn't sound very reassuring," he grins, looking up at Basti, the warmbrown eyes twinkling.

"Well, you know what they say: with good friends, there's no need for enemies," Basti quips, leaning back and crossing his arms in front of his chest, watching the wrapping being discarded. Metze opens the lid of the nondescript cardboard box and then he's staring at the content, a corner of his mouth twitching. "_Kehli._"

Just that one word, and there's so much in it. Basti doesn't dare to name the conflicting emotions and feelings welling up in his throat at hearing his nickname said in that way.

"Chris? What is it? C'mon!" Malte says, raising his head to catch a glimpse of the contents.

"Oh, it was nothing, really no need to tha-" and then Basti gets pelted with all the chewing gum packages he has filled the box with amidst Metze's laughter, "you sick fuck, Kehli, only you-" and he is laughing himself, "hey, you asked for it," raising his arms to cover himself, but a package hits him square on the forehead and "Score! Bullseye!", coming from Malte, and then Metze has discovered the special edition collection of Stanley Kubrick movies on DVD at the bottom of the box.

"Hey, that's awesome, Basti – thank you a lot," Metze says, and then he's coming around the table and for a short moment – mere seconds, really – Basti is in Metze's tight embrace, and when his arms raise up to go around him, it's just _so_ natural, all of it: Metze's smell, the faint trace of his aftershave still detectable in the crook of his neck where Basti's nose is squished, and his eyes close – but open when Metze loosens the embrace, smiling down at him.

"You're the best, but that was really low with the chewing gums," he says, and Basti grins, sweeping three or four packages off his lap. "Hey, at least you won't have to give out Easter bunnies now – or did you take the ones the kids left behind back with you again to re-use?"

"Nah, he remelted them to make Santa Clauses," Malte says, "you know my brother. No unnecessary expenses."

Basti laughs, looking up at Metze who's rolling his eyes, and it's just _perfect_, and he leans back, his head touching Metze's tummy. But Metze stiffens, and Basti feels how his smile cracks a bit at the edges – damn it, he had forgotten.

But how _easy_ it had been.

How terribly easy.

He sits up straight again, squaring his shoulders – do not forget, Sebastian Kehl. Do _not_ forget.

"Want to play?" Malte asks, fiddling with the PS2. "Chris doesn't even want to play anymore even when I let him have the best team, which sucks anyway because he butchers them to hell and back."

"I don't know," Basti shrugs. Suddenly memories of past times surface – when Malte was still with the BVB and they ended up way more often here than at their respective homes, playing PS2 games till late night, Metze always trying to distract Malte by all fair and unfair means to smoothen the way for Basti's victory, and … "I don't really feel like PS2ing," he says instead, "there was too much of that at the World Cup, really."

Metze nods. "Yeah, who would've known that the great Sebastian Kehl would get suckered by the likes of Schweini and Lukas? He's still smarting from the injury to his great ego, too," and when Basti turns with an indignant "Hey!" towards him, Metze just grins. "Admitting it won't hurt, Kehli. But what about watching a DVD instead? I'm now the proud owner of an impressive collection and –" he peers at the list of movies on the box – "there are lots of classics in here, what about Full Metal Jacket?"

Malte grumbles a bit, but a reminder of Metze that _he's_ the birthday boy and it's a dictatorship here shuts the injured Aalen defender up. As Metze pops the DVD into the player, Basti realizes that as Malte's stretching out his lanky frame all over the three-seater couch, he'll have to share the two-seater with Metze. So, of course, Basti is reminded of all the innumerable times they did so in the past, with and without Malte in the near vicinity and –

Shit. And then Metze's settling down next to him and the movie's starting, but Basti can't concentrate on the first scenes – Metze's _that_ close, their knees almost touching, and Basti almost feels scorched by his body heat. And when Metze crosses his arms in front of his chest, the rustle of his shirt even overpowers the sounds from the movie.

Malte's sitting right opposite them, the crisps bowl on his stomach and his hand disappears into it from time to time, his eyes fixed on the screen where Pyle is being deconstructed by the Sergeant, crumbs dropping all over his pullover. He's so caught up in the classic that he doesn't even notice Basti's predicament. Lucky him.

"You okay?" Metze. Basti turns his head to look at him in the dimmed light, and, seeing the worry lurking in his best friend's eyes, he smiles at him. Good old Metze.

"Yeah, it's okay. Don't be such a worrywart, Metze," he whispers.

Metze smiles back, the corners around his eyes crinkling, and suddenly Basti _wants_ to touch them, to trace the lines carefully, to feel them smoothen out under his fingers and –

then Metze says, "I'm going to fetch another beer," getting up abruptly and leaving Basti behind, something in him deflating all of a sudden. Fuck.

*

When Metze returns – taking quite a bit longer than expected to fetch a bottle of beer –, he sits down next to Basti again, but it's further away than he sat before – not much, but at least three or four centimetres, and it feels like he's now sitting on the other end of the room, no, even farther, out there in the fucking galaxy and it sucks. Basti takes a deep gulp from his beer, the cool bubbles flowing down his throat and leans forward, intent on the movie where the soldiers are being drilled mercilessly, and he says a little thank-you prayer to God that Metze has been declared unfit for the army, even though he reckons they wouldn't really employ such unpleasant methods.

When he sneaks a little glance sideways after some minutes, Metze's eyes are riveted to the screen, but Basti can detect a certain tension in his shoulders and in the way he's gripping the beer bottle. If things were different – _if things were like before_ \- then he'd just lean back, and if necessary, slide closer to Metze so that their thighs would be touching and he'd exert a little pressure, just enough to make Metze notice that he's there, that there's nothing to fret over, or he'd just put a hand on Metze's bony knee, rubbing slightly. Or he'd sling an arm around Metze's shoulders, jostling him a bit to shake him out of the worries he's drowning in.

But he can't do that anymore. Not if he doesn't want to get into that dangerous border territory again, where there's no clear black nor white, but only shades of grey.

And so he tries to concentrate on the movie and Joker's progress through war-torn Vietnam.

*

The credits are rolling and Malte's burping. "Damn, I ate too much," he sighs and yawns, the motion dislodging the crisps bowl and it clatters loudly onto the wooden floor.

"Can you please be clumsier, Malte?" Metze snaps, and Malte raises his hands in defense. "Have mercy, I'm just a gimp with a bad leg who's also accidentally your little brother – but I guess that doesn't mean much to you right now."

Metze sighs and shakes his head. "Sorry."

"None the worse," Malte says with a wry grin, raising himself up and, yawning again, lifts his crutch from the wall. "I think I'm gonna go to sleep, the knee hurts too much to be good company. You two can catch up with each other – good night, Basti, good night, grumpy." He gives them both a little wave with the crutch and hobbles off, closing the door of the living room behind him.

Now they're alone with each other.

And the silence that now descends on them is – feels different. Not really uncomfortable, but it has a certain density to it that presses down, cloys the air around them.

"I-" – "Basti-" and then they stop, and Metze runs his hand through his short-cropped hair, and he's still not looking at Basti, and. And it's not at all how Basti had imagined it would be. And he so desperately wants to rectify it, wants to make it better – and that's how his hand lands on Metze's shoulder, and how he's leaning into Metze, and when their lips meet – for the first time after _months_, Basti sighs into Metze's mouth.

How he missed that, and the feel of Metze's body against his, the bones and muscles shifting under his warmsoft skin, and then he's being pushed back, and Metze's staring at him, chest heaving.

"Why – why did you have to do that?" he asks, and there's so much _pain_ in his voice that Basti's wincing, closing his eyes.

He has fucked up. Big time. More than big time, even.

"I'm sorry," he says, and never has he felt so cheap. These words won't bring back anything, nor bridge any rifts, nor…

"We had an agreement. Or whatever you want to call it. I thought – _you_ wanted it, for God's sake!" Metze's yelling now, and only Basti's pointed look towards the door Malte disappeared behind makes his best friend inhale sharply, visibly swallowing down the next words.

Basti shakes his head. "I thought I wanted it. I _thought_. I – I never was sure, Christoph. Never."

Metze leans back onto the couch, rubbing his hands over his face. "Great. That's just great."

And it pains Basti to see Metze like that, to be the cause of so much pain. He used to know what to do when his best friend was hurting; he knew how to distract him, how to bring Metze onto other thoughts. But now that he himself is the cause of the pain, how can he help?

"Maybe I should go?" he ventures to ask, feeling his voice catch in his throat. It sounds as if he's officially giving up on their friendship, on their unspoken promise to always be there for the other one. But then, maybe he had done so already long ago, and this is just the final cut with the axe. The one that hurts most.

Metze's lips curve up in a sad smile. As if he had read Basti's thoughts. "Do you really want to?" he asks, quietly.

"No," Basti says, "and you know that. But if it's like this…" and he shrugs, somehow managing to encompass all the fucked-up-ness of the current situation in that little movement.

"Look, Basti –" and Metze closes his eyes for a short moment, and then he leans forward, looking at him with a rare intensity, "what do you _really_ want, in this moment?"

"You," it slips out, and then Basti's repeating it, "you. I want you."

Damn. But it feels like the raw truth. Painful, but also liberating.

Metze opens and closes his mouth without saying anything. But there's something in his eyes, slowly unfurling like a fragile rosebud, and so Basti just leans forward, a hesitant smile on his lips, until he can feel Metze's breath on his skin, but stops before he can bridge these crucial inches between his and Metze's mouth.

Suddenly there's soft warmth, insistent and pressing, and then a hand lands in his neck, stroking as Basti's hand grips Metze's thigh, feeling the play of strong muscles – and then Metze pulls him backward with him.

Basti topples onto Metze, coming to lie between his thighs. His hand slides up to Metze's side, the kiss getting more insistent, hotwet clashes, and then their tongues are meeting, the faint flavours of beer and chips and Metze's special sauce mixing, and combined with Metze's own smelltaste it's as heady as the finest red wine and Basti's moaning into Metze's mouth, pressing down, wanting to _melt_ into Metze, the rustling of their clothing impossibly loud in his ears.

"Basti," Metze moans, and then hands – his or Metze's, Basti doesn't know, nor care – pull them out of their shirts and roam free over naked skin, imprinting themselves on it, the fingers' trail painting lush tableaus on Basti's fired-up skin. It has been a long time, too damn long, and he sighs into the passionate kiss, his hands memorising the rise and fall of Metze's shoulders, the straining of his muscles.

He feels what Metze doesn't say, catches bits here and there in the press of a palm, the (_missed you_) slight scratch of a nail, the nip on his (_too long_) lower lip, the stubble burning into Basti's sensitized skin, (_need you_) the rustle of their clothes (_want you_) and the halfswallowed moans ringing in (_forever_) Basti's ears.

When Basti raises himself up slightly, sliding a bit to the side to fumble with the buttons on Metze's fly, feeling the heat of the erection straining against his fingers, Metze draws in his breath sharply, but doesn't swat Basti's hand away. One by one, the buttons slide free of the constraining denim, carefully – Basti knows that Metze often goes commando and today is no exception, as he discovers. His own cock throbs at the sight of Metze's erection springing free, already glistening at the tip with precum.

"Christoph," Basti breathes, his hand closing around his best friend's cock, and it fits _perfectly_, the soft foreskin gliding up and down, and then Metze's mouthing his neck at that particular juncture that makes goosebumps race over Basti's back, his hands jerkily smoothing over Basti's shoulders and back and his body presses upwards into Basti, rocking along to Basti's slow jerk-off.

When Metze's hands grip Basti's arse, pressing down, Basti shudders; it's almost too much and yet so perfectly _right_, and he bends his head to mouth Metze's collarbone wetly, progressing further downwards amidst the sparse chest hair to the hard nipples, lickingsucking them, painting circles around them with his tongue until Metze buries his hands into his hair, his chest heaving, a strangled gasp escaping his lips.

And then the tip of Metze's cock smacks wetly into Basti's chin and he snorts, exerting a firmer grip on Metze's hip. "Impatient much?" he says, and when Metze laughgasps, "too damn lo-" he sucks in the cock, his cheeks hollowing out, and he hears a strangled moan which means Metze has bitten into his fist.

Sucking cock is like riding a bike – once you can do it, you never forget how to, Basti thinks as he alternates tongueing Metze's foreskin with long, broad swipes and hard sucks, the head of the cock bumping into his palate. The first salty drops hit his tongue and suddenly his mouth is full of saliva, _god_. His fingers slide down to caress Metze's balls, lying warmheavy in his hand. He squeezes them just as he swallows Metze's cock, the blunt head slidingscraping into his throat and this is it for Metze; his best friend rears up, his body thrown in stark relief, every muscle straining and Basti goes with the ride, feeling hot spurts burning down his throat.

Gagging a bit – been too long, yes – he lets Metze's softening cock slide out of his mouth, now painfully aware of his own straining erection, his mind reeling from the sharpfamiliar taste of semen – Metze's semen. Breathing heavily, he caresses Metze's sweaty abdomen, feeling the muscles flex in the aftershocks of the orgasm.

"Basti, god," and then Metze's pulling at him and he scrambles forward, back onto Metze, and then Metze's arms come around him, holding him tight. The shift leads to his cock being pressed against Metze's bunched-up jeans and he involuntarily rocks up against it, seeking relief.

Metze's warm breath sweeps over his cheek, and then Basti hears "I want you. In me," low but intense, and Basti has to close his eyes. Such hunger. Such longing.

He nudges his nose against Metze's jawbone instead, and then further upwards, and as easy as a key slides into a lock, their mouths come together, their tongues entangling, and his fingers stroke Metze's short-cropped hair, the sweaty bristles tickling his palm, and then he's relearning the curve of Metze's jaw, the sweep of his cheekbone.

"To bed," Metze whispers against Basti's lips, his hand smoothing over Basti's ribcage, dipping down to the waistband of his jeans, tracing its seam. Basti sighshudders at the delicate touch and then Metze's manoeuvring them around in an upright position, catching Basti's lips in an open-mouthed kiss and when he moves to stand up, Basti is right there with him, never loosening the kiss so that their hands are all over each other, grippingsqueezing. Metze's arse fits just perfectly into Basti's hands, but their movement is hindered by their jeans and so Basti breaks the kiss by turning away his head, "off with the jeans," and "right," and then Metze just slides his off his thighs, stepping out of them while Basti fumbles with the buttons on his fly, his fingers suddenly feeling numb.

"Let me," and then Metze's there, gloriously naked, and Basti's hands are moving of their own volition to touch the flatmuscled chest, fingertips brushing over the nipples, moving down to the ribs, and when Metze jerks – he's ticklish there –, "stop it," Basti has to smile.

Metze's dexterous fingers have undone the buttons quickly and are now sliding the jeans along with the boxers over Basti's thighs, down to his knees, and the relief at feeling his cock spring free from the restricting clothing is nice, but not quite as nice – Basti gasps – as Metze's hand closing around it, a slow stroke, but then he steps back – oh, right, bed.

Basti's boxers seem to not want to leave his left ankle, but a quick shake gets rid of them, and then he's blindly reaching for Metze again, and stumblingshuffling backwards, with neither letting go of the other even for a second, muscles straining and thighs flexing against each other, Metze's hands squeezing Basti's arse which elicits a gasp from him but is quickly caught with Metze's tongue delving into Basti's mouth. The progress down the hall is only a hazy memory – how the hell did they open the door? – and then Basti's flat against the bedroom door, smoothcool wood against his feverish skin.

_If Malte were to come out of his room and see them like that -_ Basti grapples for the door handle, but the 'click' announces that Metze has found it already and the door swings inward, sending them stumbling towards the bed. But Metze manages to catch them in time, sending the door shut behind them with a well-placed kick of his foot, and then he lowers them onto the queen-size bed.

Basti sighs in bliss as the soft cotton sheets warm quickly up to him, but Metze's body is like a furnace in itself. If he were a tomcat, he would be purring.

Metze's thighs are entangled with his own; the dusty hair scraping over Basti's skin with every thrust, their cocks jostling with each other, painting wet strokes on Basti's abdomen, and he reaches down to Metze's ass, squeezing it – god, he feels so _good_. A light shudder races down Metze's legs, and then Metze's dragging his mouth over Basti's cheek, his tongue sliding into Basti's mouth, and Basti drowns in the onslaught, in the _hunger_.

Just as they've gotten into a good rhythm, the hard thrusts of Metze's sending Basti's cock sliding along the slick crease of Metze's hipbone and it would only need a bit more, just – Metze stops, raising himself off Basti, "wait," and then he's bending over to the nightstand, straining to get at the drawer and Basti's hand stroke his back, following the muscles' rise and fall and it's so achingly familiar, them, just like this.

"Here," and then the little black bottle lands next to Basti on the sheet. His eyes meet Metze's which are almost inky black in the dim light. He looks too serious for this, and now Basti's fingers do what he had wanted to do earlier – tracing the worry lines of Metze's brow, around to the crinkles, and then Metze's closing his eyes, his head bowing. But Basti continues with his exploration of Metze's face – the nose, the faint fault line from back then, and it all fills him with a sort of dazed wonderment. It's really happening, he's here with Christoph, and it's all just like he imagined it would be – and yet, also nothing at all like it.

And then he's drawing down Metze's head, his lips planting a soft kiss on the forehead, asking for – what? Love? Forgiveness? Validation? Basti doesn't know, but he still continues with the butterflysoft kisses, paying homage to the nose's tip, the crinkles that he loves so much, and then the soft mouth, the lips looking rather bruised, but that's probably just because of the darkness. Again and again, gentle, as if he were afraid that Metze'd break.

But then Metze raises himself up, slowly, but Basti doesn't let him go; instead, he continues to plant these little kisses everywhere he can reach – on Metze's adam's apple, right under his chin, in that hollow above his collarbone, and with every kiss he rebuilds Metze for himself. Puts him together, makes him whole again. Makes him _his_.

He doesn't stop when he hears the 'pop' of the bottle's cap, nor when Metze moves around and up, nor when he hears the slight indrawn hiss of Metze's.

Basti's hands curve around the ticklish zones to Metze's back, and lower, encountering Metze's hand as he prepares himself, and Basti's own neglected cock jerks in delight at what's to come, him sinking into Metze, deep and forceful, that tighthot perfect fit indescribable, and his fingers explore the arse, delving into the crack, and there are two – no, three fingers in Metze already, slipperywet.

"Condom?" he asks, only to be met with a raised eyebrow. "You didn't need one when you went down on me – and swallowed," Metze points out, breathing heavily.

"Okay, but – fine," Basti concedes. They usually do – did it with full protection. They knew that they could trust each other, so it really hadn't been necessary. They had done it from time to time without, too. And liked it as well. It was just less messier with condoms – no sticky semen residues on bodies or sheets after lovemaking, just a little balloon to knot up and that was it.

The lube feels slightly cool on his heated dick, but it warms up quickly as he spreads it all over it, being rather messy – a trail trickles down his inner thigh, but he doesn't care, not when the faint 'plop' tells him that Metze's ass is now ready, and then his hand gets batted away.

When Metze's own hand closes around his cock, giving it a rough squeeze, Basti bites down on his lip hard. His legs suddenly feel boneless, only a quivering muscle mass, and then Metze's shuffling forward, raising himself up to position himself at the right angle, his own cock half-hard, bumping against Basti's abdomen and leaking a bit.

Basti's hands are gripping Metze's hips, and he doesn't care an iota that he's leaving behind finger-shaped bruises, complete with nail crescents, and then Metze just _sinks_ down onto him – so damn _tight_. He gasps as Basti's cock pushes past that initial barrier, and then it's a smooth slide, all the way into Metze and – oh my _god_.

Basti can practically feel the sweat break out on his forehead in little drops, his chest is heaving as if he's running forever and ever, not able to stop, being dragged onwards by a force infinitely stronger than him, and he pushes up into Metze, his knees drawn up against Metze's back for leverage; and then all hell breaks loose and his hands are grappling for hold on Metze's lean back as he feels his cock being swallowed again and again by Metze's ass, hard thrusts intent on breaking Basti's hipbones, and indeed, he feels himself shattering with every one of them, crumbling into pieces, each one of them slicing through his core and then Metze catches his mouth in a bruising open-mouthed clash, his hand curling around Basti's sweaty neck.

Feeling the wethot slide of Metze's cock against his skin, Basti reaches in between them and closes his hand around the familiar form, the copious precum providing enough lubricant for jerking his best friend off in rhythm with the bruising thrusts. There's nothing else left but the two of them in their passion, the world around them fading away at the edges into darkness, and Christoph is all around him, in him, and Basti wants nothing more than to crawl into him so he wouldn't ever lose him – ever miss him again, and with a last desperate thrust he spills himself into his best friend, and the orgasm that rushes up on him is so forceful that it feels like his legs are ripped out from under him from the blast wave.

His own moan rings faintly in his ears with the strangled gaspmoan escaping Metze's throat, the tendons straining, as his ass clenches around Basti's cock, hot spurts spilling over Basti's hand and chest, and then Metze just _falls_ against him and the momentum sends Basti onto his back, a warmheavy Metze on top of him. His cock slides out of Metze and he feels his best friend twitch slightly, but neither of them makes another move save for Basti's one hand slowly rubbing Metze's lower back.

Metze's breaths even out and Basti nuzzles him behind his ear, his eyes closed. His fingertips and toes are still tingling from the big rush. He could lie here like that forever and ever. Even though Metze's a big lug, but then, he wouldn't want him any other way, and he smiles against Metze's neck.

"Was it good for you?" Metze mumbles, and Basti snorts, too tired to think up a proper reply; a good squeeze of Metze's ass must suffice.

But then Metze turns around, facing Basti, but his leg's still slung over Basti's thighs and his arm rests on Basti's chest. He's smiling, and Basti watches the crinkles around his eyes firming. "I assume that means a yes."

Basti chuckles, his hand cupping Metze's neck, the fingers sliding into the bristly hair. "What else, you dumb lug?" And then he's edging closer into the furnace that is Metze, and their lips meet, a slow, unhurried kiss.

He feels Metze smiling against his lips, and pauses long enough to ask, "What?", and then Metze chuckles, warmbreath spilling against Basti's wet lips.

"I just imagined Malte standing in the living room and drawing his own conclusions," he says.

"Oh fuck," Basti sighs. "I better go and collect them, otherwise we'll be in such a huge pile of shit that we'd drown," and just as the last words leave his mouth, he feels Metze's body stiffen and turn away – but he catches him on the hip just in time.

"Christoph –", and he's back to square one, the warmth between them dissipating, the smile fading from Metze's lips, and. Basti shakes his head, searching for the right words. "It's not what you think, just – wait, okay?" With these words, he climbs out of the bed and with two strides he's at the door.

The hall's dark, but Basti knows where the living room door is, and he feels his way along to the doorknob. Damn – they forgot to turn off the light, and he winces against the brightness, his eyes squinting. His jeans over there with the boxers, check, the one sleeve of his shirt resting on the couch's armrest, and then there are Metze's clothes. After deciding against cleaning up Malte's crisps mess, he tiptoes back into the hall but doesn't go straight back to Metze's bedroom. In the bathroom, he squints at himself in the small mirror.

He looks just like he always does. The hair a bit more mussed, and there are the red flushing spots on and around his collarbones that he gets when he's stressed or aroused, but otherwise – he's still Basti. There are wet wipes in the little cabinet under the sink and he cleans himself off with two or three, balling them up and disposing them into the trash. He takes some back with him for Metze.

Basti drops the balled-up clothes on the stool next to the bedroom's door, closing it behind him. "Here," he says, dropping the wet wipes on Metze's stomach and climbs onto the bed, over Metze. He has to close his eyes at detecting the faint surprise and – hope in Metze's voice, "thanks," and then he settles in against Metze's side, watching him clean himself off.

"Did you really think I would just leave you there, sneaking off like a thief?" he whispers against Metze's warm skin, tracing his shoulder with his fingers, the gentle slope moving up and down.

"Sorry," Metze says, low. "I – well. What do we – no," he stops himself. "I don't want to talk about this, not now."

Basti sighs. "Yeah, me neither. But – for what it's worth – I really am sorry."

"What for?" Metze asks. "The _sex_? Because I haven't had better in a long time, really," and Basti can hear the wry smile in his voice and chuckles. "No, this I won't ever be sorry about. Same here, actually."

"Glad to hear we're on the same page there," Metze says, and then he pushes against Basti, "scoot," and after some rearranging they're able to entangle again under the thick covers, their bodies heating up the close space quickly. Basti's eyelids are starting to droop and he suspects that his aren't the only ones. He snuggles back into Metze's embrace and closes his eyes.

"Missed you."

Did he really say that out loud? But Metze's arms tighten around him and "same here," is whispered into his hair, sending puffs of warm hair over his skin. And Basti drops off into a dreamless sleep with a smile on his face.

*

Metze's sitting at the table in the living room, a cup of steaming coffee in front of him, calling up his mail account when he hears Malte hobbling down the hall, and then his brother's standing in the doorway, squinting the eyes against the sunlight. "Fuck, how late is it?"

"Not too late," Metze says, taking a sip, "you have two hours yet before I have to drive you to the physio, have breakfast – there are rolls in the kitchen, fresh from the bakery."

Malte shakes his head. "Later. I think I gorged myself on these chips yesterday. Hey, is Basti already gone?"

"Yeah," Metze says, "he had to go home and change, and then it's off to a check-up because of the knee." He doesn't say anything about how they woke up this morning (_slow kiss, whispering, "Christoph,"_), nor about how they (_"don't hog all the nutella," his arse getting squeezed, and a wet tongue licking over the spot next to his mouth_) breakfasted together, nor how they said (_a tight hug, "see you later," and a quick kiss_) goodbye.

Nor about their new agreement.

*

Metze shrugs, setting up the coffee maker. "You figure out what you want. In the meantime, I'll be here."

"Here? Doing what?" Basti asks, tapping an unruly melody on the table.

"Nothing much. Waiting for you," Metze says, turning around and smiling at his best friend and lover. "Until the end of time."

 

* fin *


End file.
